


i'll give you flowers

by jollyjellyfish



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Feelings, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, people really need to talk about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21783331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollyjellyfish/pseuds/jollyjellyfish
Summary: The first time Dorian coughs up petals, he is alone in the library. The delicate petals spread in his hand, tiny wisps of blue and he stares at them wide-eyed, the clench in his chest still present, and thinks "I’ve always fallen in love too easily."He burns them there, in his palm.
Relationships: Female Lavellan & Dorian Pavus, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 47
Kudos: 230





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively, I discovered the hanahaki trope and couldn't get it out of my head.

The first time Dorian coughs up petals, he is alone in the library. They delicately spread in his hand, tiny wisps of blue and he stares at them wide-eyed, the clench in his chest still present, and thinks _I’ve always fallen in love too easily_.

He burns them there, in his palm. 

His chest unclenches slowly and he calms his wildly beating heart — _treacherous thing that would kill him_ — and then returns to perusing the musty tome he had been looking at. No matter how much he would love to drink, to forget, to lock himself away even if it is just for a day, Dorian knows that news travels fast in Skyhold; it wouldn’t do for anyone else to know this, so delicate, so intimate, so deadly. 

His chest filling with flowers, little branches and leaves, growing slowly within him, he who is so attuned to death, cannot make them wilt, will himself be consumed and yet—

“Deep in thought?” Ellana’s voice makes him raise his eyes, and she moves so quietly, he will have to be careful, burn any evidence away so quickly so she cannot surprise him.

“Well, some of us have very difficult jobs” Dorian throws her a charming smile and relaxes minutely when she smiles back, no suspicion. 

“Could I persuade you to leave the difficult job and join us at the Rest?” Her hand on his shoulder is warm. “Bull will be there too”

And for her sly tone, Dorian knows her eyes are soft. And yet, indeed. 

“Far be it from me to deprive you of my company” he gets up, curls his moustache around his fingers and watches as the Inquisitor’s smile grows fond. 

Bull always kisses as if he means it, as if there is so much yet to give— slow, fast, tender, sweet, hard, tempting— they are always filled with something, a secret Dorian wants to unwrap with his own mouth. They have kissed for minutes and hours, and it has never changed. Right now, Bull kisses him gently as they are lying on the bed, the sunrise painting the whole room in hues of golden and pink, Dorian feels the secret so acutely, in Bull’s mouth, a taste of the future, a taste of unknown. 

“I know it is early, but we are departing for the Hinterlands soon” says Bull, anticipating the complaints from the mage, and Dorian obediently grumbles. He does not want to get up, wants to pull Bull back into the kiss.

And maybe he can indulge in this, even for a little bit, he surely deserves some comfort, so he does exactly that, feels Bull’s laughter as a rumble against his chest. It is warm, and so good against the rebellious garden inside him. If he closes his eyes and focuses on the way his body feels, how Bull touches his arched back, how the crisp morning air is coming through the ridiculous hole in the ceiling, then there is no reason to think of blue flowers, their delicate petals, leaves like strings. If he could only kiss Bull forever—

“Why the Inquisitor insists on sending us to inane Hinterlands missions I will never understand” the tevinter states, later, when they are much more awake and dressed. 

Bull laughs, touches his bare skin, there on the patches that his armour leaves exposed, a point of warmth against the chilling autumn air. 

“I know you don’t mean that, big guy” and Dorian leans against his touch ever so slightly, rises one eyebrow. 

“I can see why they made you a spy”, despite the sarcasm, his heart stutters as Bull winks at him with his one eye good-humouredly.

 _Foolish, foolish heart._

  
Dorian thinks of vines and leaves, of small blue flowers unfurling in front of his eyes like wings of an insect, scintillating, but no demons come to haunt him. The mage wonders if that is because he already carries his great temptation within himself, both terrified and marvelled by the tiny petals that escape from his lips, those he burns mid-air and watches as the ashes are swept away by the wind. 

It is easier than it should, to keep this a secret. Swallowing coughs until his eyes sting, eventually acknowledging a slight cold or once, memorably, choking between Bull’s legs and prettily smiling up, twisting words into innuendos, kissing away the pain in his own throat. It will come a time where this is not enough, but he cannot simply let it go now— these crumbs are probably delaying the growth of the flowers within him, slowing down the rate he walks to death.

Cole knows, of course, but Dorian tells him over and over again _please don’t say anything please don’t try to soothe it_ and his pleading is successful, even if the spirit turns wide-eyed and murmurs about helping. But there is no help that can be given, love cannot be forced (Dorian knows that so intimately, in scars he carries in his body and mind) and the mage just shakes his head _please, Cole_ , watches as the spirit gently puts his hand over Dorian’s chest.

“You don’t want it gone.” 

The tevinter smiles. From his window, the voices of the Chargers can be heard, Bull’s the loudest of all, as they train in the courtyard. 

It is only when his body is racked by coughs on his way out of the library, he is not fast enough, and looks up to see Solas, shock across his usually haughty expression— all leaves and petals and green turns to ash, but he is not fast enough—

“Forget you’ve ever seen this” he warns, stalks out of the library with his heart pounding in his ears. 

The elf comes to him much later, when he has managed to fall into a fitful sleep, hidden away in his own room, away from the Herald’s Rest and caring, but prying eyes. 

The Fade changes around him, and he is standing far atop the mountains, watching Skyhold from a distance — there is snow everywhere, but Dorian feels no cold. Solas is standing right next to him, hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the fortress below. 

“I thought you would appreciate some privacy when discussing it” the elf states.

“We are not discussing this” Dorian knows his voice is rising, and makes a deliberate effort to lower it. “Just leave it be, Solas.”

They stand side-by-side under sunlight (Dorian is aware it is nighttime, but the Fade is mysterious, and he is grateful for the way the light tinges the gray walls of Skyhold, softens the stone) and neither moves. He could just leave, but Solas navigates dreamspace much better—

“There have been many Love spirits around Skyhold recently — they are not common, as you know” the elf continues, as if Dorian had not interrupted him. “Now I understand why.”

Dorian had noticed them too, when he walked the Fade in his dreams, little wisps of warmth and a giggle, a soft sigh — he had been prepared to have demons coming to offer him relief _I can make him love you, I can make him want you_ but they did not come. The Love spirits, however, were always there, hiding behind trees or whispering in the wind, coming towards him, touching his chest in wonderment, making his heart slowly overflow. 

“You are dying.” the tone is not soft, but almost a rebuke, and it gets under Dorian’s skin in the worst possible way (he remembers the whispers when a Magister had been taken ill, his father’s laugh at the man’s folly, such weakness). 

“And yet, I have no wish to get rid of it, thank you very much” Dorian states, waspishly.

Solas turns to him, tilts his head slightly, as if puzzled. It is a look Dorian has often seen him direct at Ellana, a surprised, doubtful expression — it is off-putting, but simultaneously makes the tevinter feel as if something has shifted. 

“I won’t tell the Inquisitor” and now it is Dorian’s turn to widen his eyes in surprise as the apostate looks away to the slowly rising sun. He thought this was why Solas was here, to chastise him on Ellana’s behalf— deny all he wanted, Dorian had seen the stolen glances, longing etched into them, a longing he recognised mirrored in his own eyes.

Of course, since the Inquisitor’s heart was so obviously ensnared, they were still very different. 

“You do know that it cannot be hidden forever” said Solas again, but the tone is gentler now, almost friendly, and Dorian wants to yell _don’t pity me_ but there is none of that in the other mage’s expression, so he chokes on the instinct to push away, straightens his back, watches the windows of Skyhold shine under the morning light — if this wasn’t a dream, he would soon see Bull joining Cassandra for morning training, good-humoured smile and strong arms, and the image makes Dorian avert his gaze towards the sky. 

“I just want a little more time,” he says, and is grateful that Solas does not react to the way his voice wavers. 

  
Bull smiles at him the next morning, “Hey big guy, how is the cold?” 

And Dorian, with his treacherous heart, makes an airy hand gesture, dismisses any concerns, 

“Probably just the side-effects of horrible Ferelden weather” and sits at the breakfast table as if he hadn’t spent his night watching a slow sunrise, feeling his chest rise and fall and wondering when would it stop. 

Solas sits opposite him, but beyond a mere polite nod, there is nothing else, and Ellana fusses over him briefly before dashing out to the War Room, giving him a brew of something fresh-smelling and most likely Dalish. It is another common day, and Dorian complains about the lack of spices in southern food (and pretends not to notice how Bull smiles amusedly into his cup), Sera yells something colourful about his fancy eating habits and then tells him he better come to the Rest tonight. 

(He hopes that he can, he cannot keep on not drinking with her and the Chargers, if there is one thing Sera cannot leave alone is a secret.)

“You would have liked Krem’s story about the haunted forest, Dorian,” says Bull, and Dorian rolls his eyes with half-exasperation. He has heard the story three times and Bull knows it — and if they both know that Dorian really enjoys it, well, he has so little time, why not take what he can? 

“I am sure I have heard all of the Chargers’ stories by now, Bull” is what he says instead. 

“Sounds like a challenge to me!” And the qunari has the nerve to wink at him, and he has to physically contain the urge to cough just because it feels like the flowers should be growing faster, that at this rate he will be able to feel the foliage inside his chest whenever Bull smiles at him. 

  
(Solas appears by his alcove in the library, hands him a small vial.

“It will help slowing it down,” he merely states, and walks off before Dorian can even utter a word.)

  
It is dark and cold in the Emprise du Lion, and Bull’s body irradiates warmth inside the tent. Dorian has draped himself over the qunari, the temptation of heat stronger than his facade of disinterest. They breathe together, slowly, too tired for sex — and Dorian knows that this has stopped being about sex long ago, but holds on to it tightly, desperate for any kind of distance that maybe will fool his heart and body. 

“You seem tense” comes Bull’s voice, deep and heavy, a hand sneaking around the tevinter’s hips, gently pressing into his skin. 

“Who wouldn’t be, walking in the cold all day? Some of us are not furnaces,” Dorian speaks against the qunari’s neck, keeps his eyes closed. He wills his mind away from the slow crescendo of death, small garden of interruptions, and focuses on this one moment, heat against the cold outside, darkness obscuring both fear and desire. 

“Hothouse orchid,” states Bull, and Dorian can hear the teasing in his voice, soft and tentative. Sometimes it is almost enough. There are many things he desires, but nothing has ever felt like this. His chest swells painfully but he grits his teeth, buries his head against Bull’s shoulder, and this almost what he needs - a gentle, warm heart beating next to his. 

Dorian mixes Solas’ brew into his morning tea, sometimes into his evening drink. The apostate just wordlessly replenishes it, and Dorian has no wish to ask how he makes it, how he knows. It will mean a long meandering answer into the Fade, if there is any answer at all. It is a mages’ ailment, that he knows, but it is secretive and terrifying. Spoken in hushed tones, in furtive glances, and maybe even in passed down potions to dilute the blossoming, the inevitable explosion of spring. 

Dorian thinks of Vivienne, drinking tea in her balcony, and of Solas, painting slowly the walls of his room— and of himself, reading through the tyranny of his ancestors. 

A mage’s heart is given with trembling fear. 

They kiss fervently inside Bull’s room, ignoring the chill coming from the wrecked ceiling. Tomorrow is the Qun and Dorian will be left behind ( _too many mages, too much suspicion_ , are the words in Ellana’s mouth, her eyes worried and tired), and this might be the end - Dorian chest aches so sharply that he loses balance, collapsing unto the bed, a desperate effort to make this last. Bull’s eyes rake over him, reddened face and bare shoulder, and there is such desire— and if this was enough—

“Fuck, you are so gorgeous,” it is breathless, and also maybe desperate because they both know it is all so fragile, a moment that might be undone. 

“Come here,” he replies, and moves up to meet Bull, kisses his scarred lips, his hands resting so lightly against the qunari’s face. The fireplace light softens ever so slightly, and it might have been Dorian, but it could have been the wind. Their breaths slow as they kiss again and again, a less frantic pace, as if they can stay the hand of tomorrow.

 _Time magic_ , he thinks, but this is merely a wish. Time is so fraught, so elusive, won’t be stopped, and it is all moving towards an end. 

“I am thinking of sending Bull with the Chargers to Therinfal Redoubt,” says Ellana, touching Dorian’s arm gently. “I think it might be a good distraction. What do you think?”

He tilts his head at her and then nods, feeling the usual pinprick of guilt when he meets her soft, worried eyes. Ellana has a generous, giving heart and a steely resolve — if she knew, she’d tear apart the vines and leaves and flowers, scratches on her hands, hug him tightly, whisper affection in his ear. 

“I think that would be good, yes, Inquisitor,” he touches her hand, feels the ways her fingers clasp at his. Bony fingers, cold skin, so different from Bull’s hands. He thinks of them, warm against his skin, rough and yet so gentle. 

“It’ll be alright, Dorian, he is strong,” says the Inquisitor, smiling at him and Dorian feels something constrict in his chest, faster than leaves, faster than flowers. He pulls her hand towards him, kisses her knuckles, watches her eyes soften. 

“You are my best friend,” he knows his voice is strangely solemn, but cannot avoid it, a tired gnawing ache has settled and he wants to appease it, begging please, he cannot bear more pain. Ellana moves closer, rests her head against his chest

_can she hear it, the slow growth of death?_

and wraps her arms around him. 

“You are my best friend too, Dorian.”

  
Dorian is walking out of the library, his mind still caught up on the musty tomes he managed to obtain from Tevinter, the slow and painful dredging up of genealogy, histories of great deeds, terrible and woeful, the flow of history as spilt ink on his parchment. He hopes Sera has already left the Undercroft and is in the Rest, to yell and make lewd jokes and insult his forefathers — hopes for a sip of ale, hopes that Bull returns soon. 

He is on the first step when his vision sways. Breathe in, breathe out, everything is so out of focus, the steps away from the library escape his feet, his heart os overflowing, his chest is so full, there is love but also danger, and he cannot take another step, needs to find Ellana, needs to find Solas, needs to find someone, breathe in, breathe out, but there is almost no air left, there are small petals, tiny leaves, wisps of something that could be beautiful, a sharp stab of pain where his heart should lie— 

There is a voice risen in alarm and someone holds him as he falls. These are not warm rough hands, or cold gentle ones, but he has no strength left to care.

He dreams of a garden. 


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! I hope you all enjoy this <3

When he was a child, Dorian loved the little flowers that grew at the edge of his family’s property. They bloomed in spring, small hazy spots of blue, pink and white among the grass, otherworldly delicate, surprisingly numerous — he liked to touch their bulbous centre, trace the petals. He liked their seeds too, the toasted, peppery smell that held on to the fabric as they dried, the taste of it, a soft bite in his tongue. 

Also remembered their presence that one time when he was sick as a boy, his chest wheezing, laying in bed — grinding and mixing, the lingering taste. Traditional and reliable, seeds were, if often forgotten as flowers. But when spring came, he watched as they grew and swayed softly in the wind, the dreamlike quality of their thread-like leaves. 

Dorian would’ve liked if his parents had let them grow freely, beyond their practicality, beyond necessity. They were never fashionable when he was growing up, but now he was far from home. A garden full of them, a sight to behold. The blue ones particularly, a shade soft and yet hiding in itself many other colours, some stronger and some almost translucent-like. 

His chest was so heavy, he thought, in a daze. Their seeds could not help, but he wondered if the flowers looked beautiful there, spreading as slowly as the coming of spring. 

There are hands holding his head as he retches against the constriction on his throat. His hair is pushed back and he can feel the sweat in his forehead, can also smell the barest scent of Orlesian perfume. An undercurrent of noise — “why didn’t he tell me, what can I do?” “please, lethallan…” — and a soft thud. 

“There you go, darling,” it’s authoritative, this voice, and yet warmth goes down his limbs, healing magic, too little and yet enough to settle the rattling inside his chest. 

“This will not be pleasant—“ the voice warns and he retches again, feels the leaves climbing up his throat, and petals that could be razor-sharp for how they burn, his eyes are also burning, and he cannot destroy the evidence anymore, feels like it is himself being set on fire, something like shame, something like despair. 

“How long?” he can feel how his voice catches on his tired throat, licks his lips, opens his eyes enough to discern Vivienne’s face, and the familiar colours of his own room. And there, laying accusingly on his sheets, a flower in full bloom.

“You’ve been unconscious for some hours—“ she stops as he shakes his head, takes a breath that is barely air. 

“No, how long?”

There is a suspended moment in which her eyes look stricken, clear and wide (did his own look like this, he wonders, when the first petals burst from his lips?) before she regains composure, deftly pressing her hand to his forehead. 

“It won’t be long now,” measured tones, measured movements, and Dorian wonders if she saw many die in the Circle, in the court, guarded whispers and budding springs. The Grand Enchanter with healing hands, watching as beautiful offerings were made to the altar of unrequited love, magic eating hearts, flowers eating air. 

He must have lost consciousness again because now there are small cold hands holding on to his own. He opens his eyes to search for Ellana’s face, her dark skin reddened, but the tears long dried— a soft wounded noise escapes her throat when their gaze meets, but no recrimination follows. Dorian wants to say something, if an apology or an excuse he doesn’t know, and yet it is futile because they both know he would always have done this.

“Don’t tell Bull” is what he can say, finally, hating he has no words for her. A selfish being until the end, Dorian thinks with distaste, full of my own desires, whatever good has that done for me. “Please Inquisitor, he would blame himself.”

Her eyes flash in fury for a moment and then dim. 

“Dorian,“ and there are tears there, hiding in between the quivers of one word, the minuscule breath she takes before continuing, “he wouldn’t want you to die.”

I don’t want you to die her eyes say, rimmed red. Dorian pulls her hands closer to his heart, the painful rise and fall of his chest, feels her grip grow stronger as if she could pull him back from the brink. This is also love, he knows, wishes he could anchor himself there, their clasped hands trembling from the sheer force of it.

“Love has to be freely given,” and this is the crux of it, love born out of pity might save him, but it could never be enough. Desire— this is what would kill him, a profound yearning for something true. 

It comes back then, and air escapes his lungs. Choking on it, Dorian coughs and coughs and coughs, then retches, feels the harsh movement across his throat and his eyes sting with tears. He can feel Ellana trying to pull her hands away, holds on to them like a lifeline, swallows a mouthful of breath, speaks around it, almost voiceless. 

“Promise me.” watches her face, an open wound, a fresh hurt across her features. It is unfair to do this, she wants to soothe him, his throat aches desperately, she keeps trying to let go, and Tevinter has taught him so much about manipulation, about turning feelings against oneself. 

_Selfish, selfish, selfish_ , beats his heart. 

She nods, a curt, defeated movement and he lets go, allows her to bring a cup of medicine to his lips, drinks it slowly. There is so much weariness now, and he doesn’t know if it is from his heart or his body, or maybe it is both; it has been for so long now. Ellana moves his hair away from his face, slowly, then soothingly, like one would do to a child.

His eyelids are heavy, but Dorian wants to will them open, wants to tell her how sorry he is, another weight to the heavy burden she carries. There might be some of it in his face, because the elf shushes him with her fingers (they are so cool against his skin, fresh like a spring of water). The darkness beckons him closer, myriads of flowers in bloom, his garden of the unattainable. 

“I don’t understand how someone can _not_ love you.”

Dorian feels rather than hears her whisper, but that might also have been a hazy, light blue wish.

Bull should have known something was wrong when he reached Skyhold. There was no Sera yelling from a distance, no shadow of Vivienne in her balcony. But he was not thinking of them immediately, his eye swiftly searching for the library walls, even though he could not see Dorian from this far. 

His chest felt lighter than it had since the Storm Coast, something having slid into place as he lead and fought and moved with the Chargers. The horrors of Therinfal Redoubt had instilled into him another bout of self-awareness — demons preyed on weakness, on doubt. The Iron Bull had had enough of doubt. 

It is true, some things are wild and dangerous, and magic can yield terrible woes. It also brings Vivienne’s deft healing hands, Solas’ sturdy barriers and Dorian. Dorian with his quick eyes, sharp words and magic setting worlds ablaze, and yet always soothing Cole, holding Ellana’s hand in the camp, rubbing balm in Bull’s horns. An unlikely friend, push-pull and desire. 

_Asit tal-eb_. He might be Tal-Vashoth, but the Qun is still his, in the way he has moulded it, in the belief he carries — there are things to do and he is to fulfil them. 

He thinks back to Seheron, _asala-ataar_ , the great sickness eating away at his mind and heart. There is none of it now, as the Chargers sing in the courtyard of Skyhold and the soldiers smile at them, Cullen nods from a distance, the whole fortress abuzz. He thinks back to Dorian’s soft, worried eyes when they returned, when the smoke from the dreadnaught filled his nostrils and he sagged under the weight of desertion. 

His room is cold, but only slightly. The worst of the winter chill has faded, now it is only a recurring breeze. Bull sets to bathe brisk and efficiently, the rituals of travel and return are so simple, so ingrained in him. There is a lingering scent, something of sandalwood and metal, and he thinks of Dorian, spread in his bed, eyes glistening under the half light of the fire. 

There is a knock in the door, but the steps preceding it were not of a man. 

“Come in, boss.”

There is something tense in Ellana’s shoulders, and a pinprick feeling rushes down Bull’s spine. 

“Dorian is sick,” she says, and he knows this is no mere cold, no passing illness for him to poke fun at, remark on human fragility. Ellana says it with finality as if it is supposed to mean something, and he has always appreciated that in her, a directness that is not blunt. Rather, it is like a target being hit from very, very far away. 

“What is it?” the words taste like sand (in Seheron, everything tasted like it, brittle, never fully removed). Dorian had been sick before, three colds, but Bull had thought of winter, how the mage was probably adjusting, it was never this cold in the North. The tevinter had drunk the tea Ellana brewed him, complained loudly about being fussed over, but he had been healthy when Bull left, hadn’t he? 

The Storm Coast, and his return, maybe he had not noticed it, overlooked—

“It is a mage ailment. Solas and Vivienne have been looking over him…” the way the sentence remains suspended

_but there isn’t anything they can do._

The words hang in between them, glaringly obvious from the way she steels herself but her eyes look like they have been washed over many, many times. Trying to pull himself away from her gaze, Bull stares at piece of linen on his floor, white and stark against the wood— Dorian had thrown it there, peeling it off his body, away from Bull’s hand (“fenedhis, if you destroy another piece of my clothing, so help me—“). He had laughed, and Dorian had laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Such a rare, unguarded moment. 

Bull passes by Ellana, leaves through the battlements, the quickest route. 

Dorian is asleep and his room smells of flowers. 

Sera had taken one look at him, standing at the door, and let out an impressive string of curses about _magic and mages and frigging stupidity, and frigging tevinter posh bastards_ before her lower lip wobbled dangerously. She left without saying anything else, merely squeezing Bull’s arm with a bony hand. 

It is almost peaceful, Dorian’s sleeping face. It looks almost like it should, like it had before in lazy mornings when he had finally begun to stay over, months ago. It had felt like a victory then, whether for himself or Dorian, Bull couldn’t say. But then again, much about his friendship with Dorian felt like a victory, some kind of slow climb into dizzying heights — “when should I expect a knife in the back?” to shared jokes and companionable silences. 

Relationships under the Qun were different, but they had depth. No matter how much others tried to declare it, Bull had known them, known them intimately, in dark cold nights, in bright heated dunes of Seheron. Coming down South, everything was different, although it was not. He would laugh and fight and joke with his boys, he would laugh and fuck and joke with his bedfellows, he would do all this and more with Dorian. 

His Tama, watchful eyes as he coated the first vitaar on his face, _your heart is in the Qun, and the Qun is in your heart_. He had known from an early age that there was only one north, but that hadn’t stopped him when he took that blow for Krem, or when he took one, two, three blows for the Inquisitor. It had also not stopped him when he blew the horn. Sleeping with a _bas sareebas_ from Tevinter, that might not have been Hissrad, but it had been him. 

_You really are the Iron fucking Bull_ , Ellana’s words, said with laughter. 

None of them had called him anything else—

(Dorian, his leg pressed firmly against Bull’s under the table, a glint to his eyes.

“What do you say we take this somewhere more private, _The_ Iron Bull?”)

A movement, the slightest twitch of fingers, and the memory gives way, his eyes are trained on Dorian’s pained expression. One cough and then many others, following in rapid succession, a crescendo until the tevinter’s eyes are open, flickering towards Bull, no peace left, no semblance of normalcy until they subside and there this is a gaping wound, fresh and tender, hovering in the air between them. 

“You are back,” says the mage, and Bull tries not to wince at how his voice sounds, heavy and scratchy. 

“You are dying.” Bull finally says it, a finality that would surprise them both, had the situation itself not been so desperately unforeseen. 

“So it would seem,” a twitch to his mouth. “Surprisingly it is not because of all the violent things Lavellan throws at us.” 

Maybe Bull can take his cues from Dorian, the forced lightness of the words, eyes guarded, but he doesn’t want to, something heavy sits inside him, claws at his throat, the most violent creature of all. His eye goes to Dorian’s right hand, laying against the sheets; when he takes it, it seems so small against his own. 

“Dorian,” he begins, hopelessly, watches as the tevinter sighs deeply. 

“Please, Bull, I already had both the Inquisitor and Sera doing grand emotional gestures today,” turns his palm upwards, brushing it against the qunari’s, eyes staring at them wistfully. It seems that the barriers could not be held long now, a trained face giving away secrets. “You can declare your undying friendship for me another day.”

One breath, two breaths. 

“Ok, big guy,” and he has to give in, because there is something fearful there, in the way Dorian’s other hand grasps at the sheets, the slow bob of his throat. “Can I stay, though?”

“Please do,”, and if there is a shine to the man’s eyes, Bull chooses not to comment on it. What he wants— a little more time, something giving in— that does not matter right now. 

They are so familiar, the flowers Dorian produces, littering the bed around him. His Tama grew them in the garden, for cooking and healing. Many little imekari, stubby horns and quick hands, helping her grind the seeds, or mix them in a paste. Many more imekari in the garden, sitting among the spots of colour as she spoke, measured tones and certainty. _The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless_. 

Now, this is a pain he has not felt before, something to examine slowly, like a cypher he needs to crack. No close deaths since Seheron, maybe time has washed over that grief, because he should surely recognise the way his heart is being pulled from his chest, a slow, steady movement, like trying to remove a weapon lodged too deeply. Dorian has grown quieter now, sleep taking him so often, his hand laying against Bull’s so limply that the qunari wants to drop a finger over his wrist, feel the pulsing of life. 

“Bull,” Dorian says, and then coughs heavily. 

Beautiful, even now. Styling his hair meticulously, vibrantly coloured shirts, rings catching in in the soft morning light. Beautiful as well when his hair is mussed, even when there is a haunted look in his face (Bull has noticed them when Dorian thinks no one is looking), achingly beautiful, like a sunset, like something you cannot grasp, no matter how fast you run. 

“Bull,” he begins again, voice even softer now, and the qunari leans in to listen. There is a pause, a wavering of both Dorian’s eyes and hands. 

“Tell me what you need,” says Bull, an echo of before, when things were much, much simpler. Friendship and desire, _some fun, let’s ride the Bull, yes, yes, come on_ — there is no safe-word for this, and Bull wonders not for the first time if the pain is ever going to cease. He rebelled, and this is the ultimate obedience. Struggle is futile. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. 

There is a kiss, mouthed words against his lips, _I don’t want to die alone_. A reply, mouthed back, his hand against the nape of Dorian’s neck, _You won’t._

When the Inquisitor comes to fetch him, it is late afternoon. The walls of Skyhold are tinged red and everything is eerily normal, soldiers going to the tavern, a constant hum of noise and the faint sound of wheels, a carriage bearing another noble for Josephine to win over. Bull meets the elf halfway and they move towards the stairs together. 

“You should stay with him now,” her voice has become harder in the last days, sculpted with grief as she came and went from the room. She had not been alone. Sera with quick hands and quick words, seething angry when Dorian slept, pranking him mercilessly when awake. Cullen, rubbing his neck nervously from the doorway, Josephine, hand over mouth, leaving spiced honey cakes at Dorian’s bedside table. And Cole, hovering hesitantly— _a longing profound, all he has ever wanted dangling out of reach, doesn’t want it gone_ —

Solas and Vivienne, in an unlikely vigil over Dorian, feeding him potions, taking over from Bull when Sera and the boss could not. The mages of the Inquisition’s inner circle had never been a united front, yet now were bound together. Vivienne had tea with Dorian in his rooms, the clink of china, and Solas brought a chessboard, a slow game between bouts of sleep. 

“I will,” he replies, and the heaviness sets into his bones. They cross the garden and Bull sees how small forget-me-nots have taken over from the daffodils, thinks of leaves and petals spread around Dorian, full flowers that were blooming out of time.“I could never leave him.” 

Ellana breathes, a fierce sudden sound, touches his arm with resolve.

“I know you do not love him, but it is good to know you care enough to give him this,” while her tone is gentle, the words feel like a punch to the gut.

(Dorian laughing freely in the tavern, the firelight dancing in his eyes. A murmur of tevene against Bull’s ear, meaning unknown, but mellow as anything, lips soft against his neck. Dropping a heavy fur over Dorian’s shoulders as he played chess with Cullen, watching the way he snuggled up to it, a sneaking warmth in his own chest. A kiss so giving, hands pulling him closer and closer, impossibly so.)

“I do love him,” says Bull, and _how can Dorian not know?_

Hissrad, lies, lies, you did not know yourself, had to hear it named, a word for the way his heart is pulled away from his chest. _How could I not know?_ A deceiver even of himself, to have avoided it so thoroughly. The exact moment cannot be pinpointed, Bull cannot know what has stopped it before— fear, the reach of Par Vollen, or simply ignorance? Y _our heart is in the Qun, and the Qun is in your heart_ , his Tama said long ago, but now there is more than that, a new north, a new name. Now…

Now, his heart lies dying on a bed of flowers. 

“Go,” Ellana says, but he is already moving. 

Dorian is jolted awake by the sound, a clatter as his door opens so suddenly— is it Death, is this an announcement? No, he knows that silhouette, knows it intimately, imprinted in his memory. But there is something amiss, a tremor, a ripple in the slumber of his room, a disruption to his constant ebb and flow of leaves. 

“Kadan,” says Bull, and crosses the room to grasp Dorian’s hands in his own. There is a pull in his eye, a storm brewing, the sea swelling and Dorian wants it to take him, away from the earth, from fertile soil. The mage gasps for air, his lungs filling up, choked sounds, and something breaks across Bull’s face, thunder and lightning. 

“I didn’t know,” and the qunari’s voice carries a deep sorrow. 

_Ellana betrayed me_ , his mind supplies in dawning horror. _And how could she not? She loves me._

“Please don’t, Bull” it is so hard to keep the tone steady. “It’s not your fault. I’ve made my peace with death.”

(Vivienne’s hands, sure and steady as she poured him tea. “It is a procedure that can still be done, darling, should you wish it.” _No, thank you_ was what he could say. _It’s my first love without shame, I have been free to love him, let me cherish this feeling_ were things he could not.)

He doesn’t like the way Bull is looking at him now, as if he was a puzzle, something out of place, fights that feeling, tries uselessly to pull his hands away from Bull’s grasp. “It happens with mages and I have risked it knowingly.” he continues despite himself, despite sense, despite all the ways in which he had promised himself he would not keep going.

There is a haunted look taking over Bull’s features, clashing wildly, sea and storm.

“You love me,” the qunari says, and any concealment is probably gone by now, Dorian thinks his face is laid bare, closes his eyes to avoid the worst of it. His heart is beating so wildly that he forgets he cannot breathe. “This is what is wrong with you.”

He flinches, and Bull soothes immediately, a movement that should be too soft for his big rough hands (but he knows it isn’t, not when those hands have soothed him before, too kind, too easy to love). 

“No, I mean— shit, Dorian,” Bull takes a deep breath, comes closer, and his arms are all but pinning the mage in place. “I’m going about this all wrong.” 

A beat, then two, and he opens his eyes again. There has never been less of a warrior in the face staring at him, something lost and grieving, making him feel adrift, so far away from every possibility. 

“The Iron Bull,” he begins, against the sinking of his heart within his chest. A voice within him echoes the learnings of the past, a painstaking aloofness coming together to tint his words. “Yes, as you eloquently put, what is wrong with me is _sentiment_. I know you never asked for this, and it is all very well.” 

It is not, of course. And it’s not the Bull’s fault, he knows. A casual thing, just a bit of fun and now there are flowers digging roots in his lungs, a kind of magic he cannot control. And yet he has to face it, because he courted it, tilled the path for these seeds to grow, tended to them before they could take root and then after, watched with wonder as their little petals escaped and unfurled. 

“I would rather not speak of this again,” there must be something still showing in his face, because Bull’s hold on his hands gets tighter. Dorian rallies himself, every remaining scrap of armour he can grasp at, fails miserably, voice coming soft and pleading: “Please, Bull.”

“Kadan,” says Bull, even softer. Takes one hand away from Dorian’s to press it against the mage’s chest. “My heart.”

_Oh,_ Dorian thinks, dazedly. _Rendered me speechless, as you can see_ , he wants to say. _A true challenge, ask anyone in Skyhold_ , but the words are being unmade as they come out, unable to keep up with the way something bursts within him, a sunrise. 

“I… Truly?” is what he manages. 

Bull kisses him, too much tenderness, and Dorian chases it, feeling a tear trickle down his face. It is still there, the unwrapped secret of Bull’s mouth, but maybe he will have that future, a promise he can now keep. When they break apart, the qunari does not move away, touches his forehead against Dorian’s. 

The sound of their breathing fills the room. They are in tandem, Dorian notices, and his own is not a broken, rattling sound. Not yet as it was before, but tentatively better, and spring has come and gone within him.

“I didn’t know,” an apology, the mage realises— wants to laugh, really, because surely he can now, will be able to breathe afterwards. “I have been feeling like this for a long time, I just didn’t see it.”

Dorian brushes his fingers against Bull’s stubble, a soothing caress. 

“Well,” his voice wobbles a tiny bit, but he keeps going. “You will have time to make up for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the love and kudos! I really appreciate it. 
> 
> Thanks as well to @calineadaramis for being my beta for this! 
> 
> Might add an epilogue if this particular ficbunny comes around again. But I have some other ideas in the works so I’ll be publishing new things soon.
> 
> As usual, I’m on Twitter @sadelfclub and tumblr as @ajollyjellyfish

**Author's Note:**

> Second and final chapter should be arriving in about a week (: 
> 
> As usual, apologies for any mistakes as English is not my first language.
> 
> You can follow me on twitter @sadelfclub or tumblr @ajollyjellyfish if you'd like!


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